


Fire and Ice

by MichelleDV



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, what started as a drabble became more than 5 pages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 01:13:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21838921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MichelleDV/pseuds/MichelleDV
Summary: I'd set out to write a drabble, but then this happened. :D  I'm not even sorry.
Relationships: Donna Hanscum & Dean Winchester, Donna Hanscum/Dean Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Fire and Ice

Dean followed Sam and Donna into the bunker and secured the door before shuffling down the stairs behind them.

“Headed to shower and bed,” Sam mumbled with a quick glance at them.

“G’night, Sam-o,” Donna replied, hanging her jacket over one of the war room chairs. They watched him trudge away, and she waited until he’d disappeared before whispering, “Think he’s okay?”

Dean nodded. “Just needs to sleep. And he feels bad he got locked outside while we got our asses handed to us.” He tossed his jacket onto the table and turned his focus to her, gently tilting her chin to get a better look at the cut high on her cheekbone and the swelling, purplish tint around her eye. “We need to get you some ice. Come on.” He slipped his hand into hers and tugged her in the direction of the kitchen.

“What about your arm? That cut might need stitches.”

“It’s alright; it’s not that deep.”

“Dean…” She pulled up short, forcing him to face her, and gave him a stern look.

He internally winced at the blooming bruises marring her beautiful face. If that damn witch hadn’t been dead already, he’d have killed it for throwing her across the room like a rag doll.

She was an amazing hunter, though he could admit he’d never have believed it possible when they’d first met. Exuberant, candid, effulgent, and strikingly attractive, she’d seemed too innocent and light-hearted for the likes of him. As per the usual, he’d tried to keep her unaware of the darkness that crept through the world like fog in a graveyard, but she’d sassed him with such veracity he’d been more pleased—and taken aback—than angry. At times he worried the weight of the struggle pressing down on them, on her, would eradicate her effervescence, that brilliant smile, the light in her eyes. But she’d begun surprising him with how easily she’d handled the news and a machete, and continued surprising him with her acceptance of the life that came with hunting, her joviality, and the affection she felt for him.

Still, when the fight left marks on her, both emotionally and physically, it made his heart ache in ways he’d never felt before, and he altruistically wished she’d never been introduced to such a life and its inevitable ails.

Selfishly, he was pleased she’d chosen to help them fight or he’d never have had the chance to love her.

“Did you hit your head, too?” Her hand ruffling through the hair at his forehead brought him back to the present. He saw the worry on her face and wondered how long he’d stood there daydreaming of their history.

“I’m fine,” he assured her. He gently gripped her wrist with his hand and moved her arm away.

“Don’t be a dingo,” she sassed with a side-glare, using the nickname she’d given him that was both a play on his name and a way to let him know when she thought he was acting like a half-domesticated canine.

He gave her a quick, unexpected peck on the lips, a smile on his face. “I already took care of it.”

He shrugged the torn, bloodied flannel off of his shoulders and eased his arm out of the sleeve. He’d wrapped gauze around his forearm several times, and though it wasn’t the best nursing job, it’d seemed to do the trick.

“When the H did you do that?”

“When you and Sam were cleaning up inside, after I got rid of the evidence outside. Now,” he snagged her hand again and continued toward the kitchen. “Let’s get that ice so you can see out of that eye tomorrow.”

“I’m worn out,” she admitted as they stepped into the kitchen.

“Mmm,” he agreed, tossing his flannel on the bench. “Today wasn’t a picnic.”

She watched him move around the kitchen, his white undershirt barely concealing his broad shoulders and muscled back, his toned arms flexing as he broke ice out of the tray. She still hadn’t gotten over how damn attractive he was—she doubted she ever would—and most days she could maintain her composure. But on nights like this, when exhaustion clawed at her body and the adrenaline of the fight had worn off until all that remained was the desire to be held and comforted, to give comfort to the man who loved her like no other had, she couldn’t help watching him, her eyes greedy, her soul longing to just… _be_ and breathe with him. Cocooned up together, safe from the dangers that dogged their steps and sought to end them.

“You want anything?” he asked, indicating the fridge.

_So many things…_ She shook her head once, using only a few words to sum up her thoughts. “You. And sleep.”

His expression softened, and he approached her, holding her gaze. “You got me,” he murmured before kissing her softly, his hand cupping her face on the uninjured side. “And sleep is coming right up.” With his other hand, he held up the ice pack he’d made. “After we take down the swelling.”

Her eyes flashed with something undiscernible, and he gently brushed his thumb across her cheek, his brow furrowed. “You alright, D?”

She gave him a small smile. “You betcha. I really do just want you and sleep. Post-adrenaline exhaustion, ya know?”

He gazed at her a few moments longer, waiting to see something other than fatigue, but she peered back at him, her eyes dreamy and drowsy.

“You’re damn attractive, you know that?”

He nearly blanched at her unexpected compliment, thrown by the change of subject. “You sure you didn’t hit _your_ head?”

She stared at him, this man who fought the dark with his fists and his heart and never wanted anyone to know about it, who’d given up everything—family, friends, any sense of normalcy, his childhood and youth, peace of mind, and even his life on several occasions—and still fought tooth and nail to make the world a better place. Who looked at her with stars in his eyes and spoke to her heart with his touch and made her feel like a person again. Whose strength wasn’t only in his shoulders, upon which he carried the weight of the world, or the arms that held her tenderly, or that muscled wall of a chest she loved looking at and touching, but in his devotion to those he loved, his ability to pick up the pieces and keep trying, his determination to never give up, no matter how horrible the odds.

“Oh yeah. I got clear vision, even with a whopper to one eye.”

“Well, let’s make sure it doesn’t become a Big Mac.” He took her hand and headed for the hallway, turning left.

“Those aren’t—where’re we goin’?” she interrupted herself. “Bedroom’s that way.”

He turned to wink at her, a secretive smile on his face. “I got something better.”

“This I gotta see,” she teased. “Not sure my poor heart can take it after all of tonight’s excitement.”

Dean huffed an amused laugh, amazed as always that this firecracker of a woman could not only take the punches and keep on trucking, but that she could do it with her wit, sass, and smile. And make him smile right along with her.

“This,” he said, stopping in front of a room she’d never been in. “is the lounge.” He dropped her hand to open the door and flicked on the light as they entered.

Donna took in the expansive space, lit up by the lamps around the room: the fireplace at one end, a big, fluffy couch nearby, the bookshelves lining two walls, a pool table standing proudly in the center, an old radio and record player combo atop a mahogany table covered with old trinkets and knick-knacks. A large plush carpet covered most of the floor, and though the walls were brick, the room felt inviting.

“This is one of my favorite rooms,” Dean explained, motioning with his hand for her to sit on the couch.

She eased down into the center of it, unsure of its age, but was surprised to find it more comfortable than most modern couches.

Dean handed her the ice pack, the corners of his mouth quirking up at her. “You can grab the blanket behind you if you’d like. I’m gonna start a fire.”

“Thanks,” she muttered, holding the ice pack up to her face, her good eye watching Dean as he worked.

Any other man and she’d have to question her presence in a room like this: a stylized lounge buried underground, sitting on a soft couch with a fireplace nearby. Almost seemed like a monster’s lair.

But Dean Winchester wasn’t any other man. He hunted things that frightened children and their parents. He faced the dark with a brightness he didn’t realize he carried. He killed Hitler. He saved the world. Multiple times. He also held her in the highest regard and in his arms at night. He whispered secrets to her and coaxed hers out of her bruised heart and never once made her feel embarrassed. He watched her when he thought she wasn’t looking and looked at her like no man ever had. Like she was his world. He spoke to her like an equal and treated her like a queen, and she’d never met anyone like him.

No, she had nothing to fear from him. Except how deeply ingrained he’d become in her heart.

She let her gaze caress him as he prepped the tinder and logs for the fire. Hunkered down, the muscles in his toned and tan forearms flexing as he worked, his t-shirt stretched across his broad, strong back, that tapered waist, those long legs encased in denim that somehow made him seem sexier, if that was possible.

The man was hotter than a branding iron.

He lit the tinder, setting the fire ablaze, and she knew if they hadn’t been beaten like cake batter earlier, that wouldn’t be the only fire he lit.

As it stood though, one side of her face throbbed and her body ached from landing hard on the cement. Dean, too, had taken some punches, gotten knocked around, and had that cut on his arm that she would demand to see. But tomorrow.

He turned to her, his face lit up by the growing fire, and stood. “Need anything?” he asked, moving towards her.

“Nope. Just you.” She held her hand out as he approached, and he grabbed it gratefully, plopping down next to her and lacing their fingers together.

“How’s the eye feeling?”

“Hurts like the Dickens.”

He tried not to smile but failed and leaned to kiss her temple. “You wanted me…” He kissed her eyelid, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. “And sleep.”

“Mmm,” she hummed in agreement, her eyes feeling droopy from the heat of the room and the exhaustion overpowering her body.

“Wanna lay down?”

“You betcha.” She moved to lie down on the couch, and Dean scooted over to give her room to stretch out. She laid her head on his thigh, staring up into his mesmerizing eyes.

“Been a while. Let’s see it.” He eased the ice pack out of her hand.

Her skin had flared pink where the ice had sat, and her eye looked puffy, but it didn’t seem as bad as he’d feared.

“Looks painful, but better. We’ll ice it again tomorrow.”

She nodded once, and her eyes drifted closed. “Rest, sweetheart,” he soothed, brushing the hair away from her face and running his fingers through her hair.

*********

Sam had searched the bedroom hall for Dean and Donna, then the kitchen, the war room and library, and the garage. He told himself not to panic until he searched the other half of the bunker, but his long stride carried him quickly down the hallway, stopping at each door as he peeked in, but finding no trace of them.

He’d only slept for four hours and, unable to fall back asleep, he’d gotten up to make some coffee. He’d passed Dean’s bedroom door on the way to the kitchen, giving it a quick, haphazard glance before doing a double take and realizing the door stood open, the bed empty. Highly unusual, but he didn’t start feeling frantic until he’d searched all their main haunts and came up empty.

He turned a corner and saw the lounge door open, an oddity since they mostly kept the rooms closed up.

“Dean?” he whispered, unsure what had happened.

He popped his head in to get a quick look, then relaxed his stance, his muscles easing up.

Dean sat on the couch, legs sprawled out, head laid back on the top of the couch, fast asleep, one hand on Donna’s hip as she, curled up on her side, used his leg as a pillow.

Sam smiled to himself, relieved they were safe, resting, and together, and eased the door closed.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd set out to write a drabble, but then this happened. :D I'm not even sorry.


End file.
